


Cast into the Spider's Web

by shenanygans



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Use, F/M, Fem!Sherlock, Femlock, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, Sheriarty - Freeform, Teenagers, Teenlock, University, jimlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-11-27 12:27:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/662002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shenanygans/pseuds/shenanygans





	1. Chapter 1

The late afternoon shone through the window of Mycroft Holmes’s office as he enjoyed his tea, or at least tried to enjoy it considering the circumstances. He sighed and looked over the files once more. It was far too thin for his liking. If what he suspected was true, then he had just started his new position in the British Government with a truly large problem.

First there was the political tension in Siberia. Rebel groups were trying to raise a civil war. Then intelligence reports that pirates near Gibraltar were smuggling weapons across the sea into Africa. And of course, England was seeing a rise in drug smugglers in the heartland. Then strangest part was how quickly and easily these problems were arising. 

Then there was a man named James Moriarty had come under MI6’s radar. He seemed to have a vast collection of connections to criminal organizations all over the world. But his place in all of this and how much power he held was still a mystery. All Mycroft had of the man was a name and a blurry photograph. The agent who had provided this information was soon found dead, thus proving that the man did have /some/ power (also a sadistic penchant for knives). He had a feeling that this man was involved in the other situations somehow.

He placed his tea back onto its saucer. What he needed was more intelligence—something MI6 has been lacking for some time. He needed an agent that could gather information without dying horribly. Mycroft’s skill in that area was immense but there was no way he could do the field work. His job was behind the desk.

There was just one thing certain: whoever Moriarty was, he was clever enough to know when and where he was being watched. 

“Sir?” Anthea entered the office, interrupting Mycroft’s thoughts, “I have a new report.”

“Which one?” he asked, rubbing at his forehead. 

“The status report on Sherlock.” She placed a small folder on his desk and continued, “Your sister hasn’t been seen at the usual clubs and a check through her flat shows no signs of drugs. She’s clean for now but her professors have told us that she’s showing high signs of agitation and rudeness—far above her normal levels.”

Mycroft sighed. He really didn’t need to hear this at the moment. On the list of his ever growing problems, his sister was one he couldn’t simply push aside for another work date. “She’s bored. There’s not much that I can do for her.”

“You can at least pay her a visit, sir.” 

He nodded. “Anthea, reschedule my appointment with the PM and get a car ready to take me to Sherlock’s flat. Her last lecture should be over by now.”

His assistant immediately began making to calls to have it done. Mycroft placed the Moriarty file in his briefcase, intending to look over it again later that night. Then he grabbed his coat and umbrella and left his office for the day. 

It was time to get at least one problem resolved before the end of the day.

It was like a storm had gone through his sister’s flat, leaving a wasteland of papers and trash in its wake. Mycroft picked his way through and fortunately found an armchair devoid of clutter. He sighed. His sister could be a real slob when left to her own devices. Perhaps Anthea could find a housekeeper to come clean up once a week. It wouldn’t last though; Sherlock would surely drive the woman away.

Mycroft heard footsteps coming up the stairs and sighed. About time…

Sherlock stepped inside her flat and flung her bag on what was usually a clear armchair. Now it was occupied by her brother. When her brother let out a startled sound, she turned to see her bag fall to the floor and spill its contents. 

“Don’t expect me to apologize, Mycroft,” she said, annoyed, “that chair was specifically for my bag.” 

As much as she hated these impromptu visits by her brother, Sherlock knew the best thing was to get them over with. She went to put on tea and flung herself on the only other open piece of furniture, her sofa. 

“Now to what pleasure do I owe this visit, dear brother?” 

“Your professors have expressed concern over your behavior,” Mycroft explained, “I just wanted to make sure you were on track.”

Sherlock glared at him and rolled up her sleeves. “I am perfectly fine. Now if that’s everything, kindly leave me be.” 

The kettle began to boil and Mycroft got up to make the tea. “Have your funds been sufficient for all of your needs?” he asked, “Textbooks, food, trips to the café every now and then?” He noticed the chemistry set off to the side. “I want receipts sent to Anthea on all of the chemicals you purchase.” 

“I’m not going to start /producing/ cocaine if that’s what you’re thinking.” And they both knew she was right. 

“Forgive me if I don’t trust you, Sherlock.” Mycroft returned and set a mug in front of his sister. “You’ve failed us before.”

Sherlock didn’t take it. He sighed.

“Your professors have said that you’ve been more agitated than usual. You’re in danger of relapse. I suggest going to your therapist. We keep paying her but you never show up.”

Ah, the Royal We. Mycroft and Mummy were one in the same sometimes though it was Mycroft who always spoke.

“She’s an idiot and I’ve had enough of therapy thank you very much.” If anything, it had only made things worse. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft warned, “stop being stubborn. You need something to keep you from going back to—“

“Well there is nothing!” she snapped, “My classes are taught by second rate professors. The labs are unable to support the experiments that I have thus forcing me to do them here on my spare time. And don’t get me started on the readings. How these idiots got themselves published I have no idea. There is nothing for my mind to focus on here!” Sherlock stopped ranting and turned away. 

“I’ll consider going to see the damn therapist,” she muttered, “Now leave me alone. I have exams coming up and I need to study.”

That was the end of it. Mycroft went to the kitchen to wash his mug while Sherlock picked up the contents of her bag now that the chair was vacant. She handed him his briefcase and umbrella when he returned. 

“I am only trying to do what is best for you, Sherlock,” he said quietly, “Whether you believe it or not, I do care about you.”

A car was already waiting for Mycroft when he stepped out of Sherlock’s flat. His sister truly was troublesome. 

When he arrived to his own home, he had a rich dinner with a glass of in. Then he changed into some loungewear and sat by a nice, relaxing fire. He let himself unwind for a moment to clear his mind.

That damn file was waiting for him in his office. Mycroft went to grab his briefcase and look over everything one last time before going to bed. 

The file was missing.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock stared at the file before her. She had just taken it as an immature way of getting back at Mycroft. Usually such files had top secret information on the affairs of the state; dull information such as that. Oh, but this certainly wasn’t boring. 

A shadow in London’s underground. There wasn’t even a photo of this man, only a name. How exciting!

Sherlock pulled her mess of curls back into a large hair clip as she changed into some more comfortable clothing. She cleared space around the sitting room to lay out the papers about her, her laptop to the side as she sat on the floor. Her studies could wait.

 

Mycroft pulled up the CCTV footage outside of Sherlock’s flat. He maneuvered it until it was looking into his sister’s sitting room window. There, he could see the chaos she had created. The file had been spread out before her, that familiar look in Sherlock’s eyes as the gears in her mind began to work.

He could benefit from this. His sister had basically volunteered herself for the job. If Sherlock managed to find a lead, his men would be able to take it on from there. Then it was a simple thing of telling her that she was right and she’d leave it be. That’s how it has always been with her. Once the puzzle was solved she lost interest in it. So theoretically, one she discovered how to track him down she would be content with letting her brother take over the rest of the investigation. 

Mycroft called in a security team to watch over Sherlock and then informed Anthea to simply pick up the file in the morning with the usual reprimand. MI6 now had two Holmes working on the case—a new record.

 

Sherlock spent most of her night working on the case. Whoever wrote this file had been an idiot. They stuck to the most basic details and failed to write anything of importance. People just didn’t know what to look for. They might as well play a guessing game as to who this man was. 

But she never guessed. Sherlock looked through the autopsy report. It was believed that Moriarty himself and an associate tortured the agent. The initials ‘JM’ had been carved into the man’s chest. It was a signature and a message. 

Besides multiple lacerations on the victim’s body, there were large bruises from an intense beating (the associate most likely), and small, circular burn marks from cigarettes. They even found one of the butts that had somehow managed to get entangled in the ragged remains of his clothes. The cigarette had been tested for DNA and, not surprisingly, it didn’t register in the system. Sherlock wondered if perhaps the man had been bold enough to leave it there on purpose, just to play around with MI6.

On a close up photograph of the item, Sherlock noticed something. It was a small symbol that had been burned three quarters of the way off. She checked the forensics report for an analysis on the tobacco itself but found none. Those idiots! 

She quickly recreated what was left of the symbol onto a larger scale and grabbed her laptop. This could be her lead. Sherlock pull her laptop into her lap and began looking through tobacco companies that carried a symbol similar to the piece she had. She hardly noticed the light rising through her window or the faint knock on the door. What she did hear were the sound of expensive heels clicking up the stairs and entering the flat.

“Good morning, Sherlock,” Anthea said as she looked about the chaos, “I’m here to collect the file you stole from your brother. Also, I am to inform you that such actions can present a danger to the state and should not be done lightly no matter how much satisfaction you get for messing with your brother’s work.” It was the same speech every time and everyone knew that Sherlock would pay no heed. 

Anthea draped a garment bag over the back of Sherlock’s armchair. “As punishment, your brother has demanded that you join him for dinner tonight and report to him all your findings regarding that file.” She looked down at all the delicate information so carelessly left about the floor. 

“Take it,” Sherlock said, “I’ve already gotten what I needed from that pathetic attempt at an intelligence report.”

The assistant sighed and knelt down to pick up the papers, making sure nothing was missed. When everything had been put in the proper ordered she stood back up and put it into her bag. 

“You will be going to dinner tonight,” she reminded Sherlock.

“I’m busy.”

“It’s not a request.”

“Like I care.” 

Anthea brought out a small envelope. “Then I suppose you won’t be wanting this then. I took the liberty of going through your post.” Sherlock’s eyes darted up and narrowed in on the letter. 

“Give that to me,” she growled, “that is not yours to take.”

“Like I care,” Anthea responded smoothly, “Now promise that you will get into the car sent for you at seven-thirty tonight and have dinner with your brother.”

Sherlock stood up and glared at the woman. She was taller than Anthea, even with the heels, but the woman was unperturbed. She wasn’t Mycroft’s assistant for nothing; she knew how to hold herself against forces that thought themselves superior. Even her boss when it came to that sometimes. 

“Fine,” Sherlock said. She snatched the letter from Anthea with cat-like reflexes before stuffing it in her dressing gown’s pocket.

Anthea smiled. “Have a pleasant day, Sherlock.” Then she turned around and let herself out of the flat. 

Sherlock stalked back to her bedroom to get ready for the day. She would have lectures for most of the morning and then research time at the lab. 

As she changed into her normal clothing, the letter dropped out of her dressing gown. She picked it up to examine it. There was the familiar handwriting (left-handed) and the international postage stamps. A coffee stain was present in the corner, mixed with sand. Without opening it up, Sherlock put the letter in a small shoebox beneath her bed where many other similar letters had been stored. 

She hadn’t read a single one.


	3. Chapter 3

John Watson had been in his third year of university when he first met Sherlock Holmes. Fall was always John’s favorite time of the year. The few trees in the city would burst into color against the grey expansive sky. He loved to study out in the brisk air with a hot cuppa and that was how he came across the strange being that was Sherlock. 

At John’s favorite university café on campus, he spotted a young man in a large grey coat nose deep in a textbook. He recognized it from one of his lectures but didn’t recognize the man. 

“Uh, hey,” John said, sitting across for him, “that’s Schuler’s text, isn’t it? Definitely a long winded bloke, don’t you think?”

“He’s an idiot,” the young man muttered, “If he had gone into practicing medicine, he would have already lost a dozen malpractice suits. The fact that he’s allowed to teach is ridiculous.” He hadn’t even looked up from his reading.

John chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m John by the way. John Watson.” He held his hand out across the small table. 

The movement must have caught his eye because the young man looked up. “Sherlock Holmes.” She took John’s hand, shaking it firmly. “You come from a military family.”

John’s stared at Sherlock, gaping. “How…That’s correct. How did you know that?” Maybe they had a common acquaintance though he could count on his hand how many people he talked to about his home life. 

“The calluses on your hand,” Sherlock pulled her hand away. John had never let go. “You’ve been taught how to use a gun and have practiced for some time. However, you don’t have the look of someone who’s just come out of the military. That means you were taught by members in your family. They were most likely still active members and thus allowed to carry their firearms.”

It took a moment for John to collect himself. He was struck off balance by this strange man. It wasn’t just this incredible ability that he had but even his almost androgynous appearance. Ivory white skin, dark hair, soft features, and yet he had these brilliant eyes that were nearly as cold as they were calculating. It was if Sherlock could see right through him. 

“That was…incredible!” 

This seemed to have caught Sherlock off guard. “You think so?”

“Yeah, of course! It must make studying for your exams a whole lot easier.” John laughed and looked over to a couple at another table. “Hey, what can you tell me about them?”

For the next hour, John chatted with Sherlock about professors and medicine and the occasional deductions on passersby. This ability that Sherlock had amazed him and it seemed the other loved to show it off. 

As the day began to darken, John decided to make his move. 

“So, do you have a girlfriend?” he asked.

Sherlock frowned and shook her head.

“Boyfriend? Because, you know, that’s perfectly fine.”

This made her even more confused. “I know it’s fine, John. Usually it’s the opposite the society seems to frown upon but I find the whole idea idiotic. Who cares if a woman shags another woman? And even heterosexual men who are against homosexually have no problem watching such activities on the internet.”

Women with women? Wait, did that mean—“You’re a woman!” John’s face flushed in embarrassment. 

“Problem?” Sherlock’s face was blank. He couldn’t tell if she was upset or amused at this whole thing.

John tried to laugh it off. “No. Of course not! It’s just…it would have been really embarrassing if I had gone along with my plan and asked if you’d let me suck your cock. But you don’t really have one…” Real smooth, John, real smooth. 

Sherlock was silent making this whole situation even more awkward. John really liked this man—woman. It really didn’t matter to him, he was fine with either one though he would admit he was more attractive to women more than men. It was just something about Sherlock herself that drew him to her. 

Finally, her mouth opened to speak and John readied himself to be turned down for such a major fuck up. 

“The tissue that makes up the sensitive head of the penis is the same tissue present in the clitoris. That part of the body is developed before the other parts of the sexual organs are created.”

That really wasn’t what he was expecting. “What?”

Sherlock’s expression then changed into a very amused smirk. “What I’m saying is I’m actually not against you sucking my cock if you so desire.” 

 

Sex with Sherlock was, well, incredible. When John finally saw her naked, he understood how he could mistake her for being a boy. Her frame was thin, with only a hint of hips and her breasts were small, but shapely. In a way, it was almost sexless. It was only a body made of flesh and bone. What made it so breathtaking was the life that Sherlock breathed into it. 

John found her body to be so responsive to his touch. Sherlock would gently guide him to where she was most sensitive, almost directing him on how to pleasure her. As he kissed down her neck she moaned, and when he sunk his teeth into that gorgeous pale skin, the sound she made could have made him come right then and there. 

Just as he promised, he went down between her legs to elicit more sounds from lovely voice. He kissed her inner thigh before circling his tongue around her clit. And god, she tasted wonderful. Her scent enveloped John as he continued to pleasure her. When he looked up, Sherlock was staring down at him with dark, hungry eyes. 

That was it for him. He had to have her now. John quickly rolled on a condom and pushed himself inside of her with a groan. 

When John started to move, Sherlock met him with every thrust. Her nails dragged down his back to leave scratch marks behind. 

“You’re incredible,” he breathed, wanting to say so much more but Sherlock silenced him with a kiss. 

Their bodies remained locked together, sweat rolling off their backs and into the sheets. When John felt himself getting close, Sherlock had him reach between them to touch her. Her orgasm brought forth his as he released inside her. John pulled out and removed the condom but remained above her, breathing in her scent. 

Sherlock’s voice broke him out of his revelry. “You’re a bit heavy.”

John quickly apologized and fell beside her on his bed. For once, he was a bit glad it was small because it kept her body against his. 

Sherlock was staring up at the ceiling, her eyes bright and shining as she came down from her orgasm. “Thank you,” she said, “I definitely needed that.” After a few more moments to catch her breath, she got up and started dressing herself. 

“Do you want some dinner?” John asked, sitting up. “I can order some take-out if you’d like.” 

She shook her head while buttoning up her shirt. “I have to go now.”

This was always the awkward part when it came to one night stands, though he really didn’t want it to turn out that way. 

“Look,” John said, as he started getting dressed as well. “I know this seems a bit backwards, considering we’ve just had sex but I’d like to see you again. You know… have a proper date.”

Sherlock turned to face him, looking him over. “And what would a ‘proper date’ entitle?”

“Oh the usual—dinner, a movie maybe, and of course me making a total arse of myself,” he said with a small smile.

She thought about it a moment before picking up his trousers. Pulling out his phone, she memorized his number before putting in her own. “I prefer to text.” 

“That’s fantastic.” That worked out better than he had hoped. 

Sherlock left him that night and it wasn’t until a week later that John Watson learned that the girl he just had amazing sex with was actually seventeen and not a university student. This news, of course, came from a very sinister looking man with an umbrella who was waiting for John in his own flat. Apparently, this was Sherlock’s older brother who happened to work for the government and had no qualms against breaking and entering. 

As much as John wished that he had known the truth before he had engaged in intercourse with an underage girl, he wasn’t going to let this man intimidate him. 

“Sherlock doesn’t act like a teenager. Hell, she doesn’t even act like a normal person sometimes,” John said, “But she’s brilliant and I like her. I won’t have sex with her again now that I know how young she is but I won’t run off with my tail between my legs either.” 

Mycroft gave him a calculating look that was frighteningly similar to Sherlock’s (it seemed to be the only similarity they had) and then replied, “I am not threatening you, Mr. Watson. I am above such things. However, if you ever prove to be a threat to my sister or take advantage of her again with the full knowledge of her young age, I won’t hesitate to have you wiped off the face of the map. That, my good fellow, is a promise.” 

“And if you ever enter my flat again without my permission, I won’t hesitate to throw you out the window,” John said, “That is a promise as well. I’m also above threatening people, Mr. Holmes. My father taught me better manners than that.” 

There was a glint of amusement in Mycroft’s eyes. He rather liked this young man. He excused himself politely and left John to study for his chemistry exam. 

 

John knelt down beneath the bright Afghani sun, wrist deep in his comrade’s guts. The shrapnel from an IED had torn through the man’s side right. John had rushed to his side, separating himself from the rest of the team. He dragged them into an empty civilian home for cover. If they didn’t get evacuated quickly, both of them might die out here. 

“Stay with me, Maury,” he breathed, digging out the tiny pieces of shredded metal and stopping the bleeding. Thankfully, none had nicked an artery but there was still a lot of damage. 

They were surrounded by the sounds of gunfire and shouting. John blocked it all out and focused on the task at hand: making it sure this man made it back home.   
Maury groaned at the agonizing pain. He tried to speak but couldn’t get anything coherent out. 

“Is that so?” John said, faking a conversation. As long as Maury was conscious it didn’t matter what was said. “I bet your girl back home is really going to dig these scars.”   
The sound of gunfire was getting closer. John quickly covered the wound with gauze and wrapped it up. 

“One of these days, I’m going to get shot as well.”

It was right when he picked up his rifle that an enemy gunman entered, his back turned to John and Maury as he shot out into the street. Maury groaned again, alerted their presence to the man. 

John really had no memory of firing his weapon. All he could feel was the kickback in his shoulder and the rush of adrenaline coursing through his body. In that moment, the world was quiet. Then the man before them fell to the ground, dead, and the chaos resumed. 

A few moments later, his team followed and John was able to get Maury on a stretcher. A helicopter was already waiting to evacuate the wounded. 

Maury would live. John went back to the battlefield.


	4. Chapter 4

When Sherlock returned from her lectures, she cleaned herself up and put a bit of product in her hair to make her curls just a bit more manageable. With a few hours left to go, she went over her research again.

It seemed like this man had a pattern of going from one illegal activity to the next if you cut out all of the murders. First it was suspected that he was dabbling in prostitution, helping sex traffickers enter cities without the police or government knowing they were there. Then drug cartels began distributing a new designer drug out onto the streets. Sherlock wondered if Moriarty had someone who made it or knew enough chemistry to create it as well. Weapons smuggling had to have been his most profitable venture before finally moving into his current business of art forgery. 

The pattern seemed to suggest that Moriarty moved from one obsession to another after he got bored. Though his presence remained in each circle of crime for business’s sakes, it didn’t have the same sense of interest. It wouldn’t be long until this man would move from high end crime to terrorism if Sherlock was right. Everything else was becoming too boring for him.

An hour before Mycroft’s car was supposed to arrive, Sherlock finally opened up the garment bag that Anthea had left for her. It was a dark plum dress that stopped just above her knees. It was simple but elegant. No one would mistake her for a boy in this dress (which was the point of course). There were black velvet heels to go with it and a note saying to use some of Mother’s jewelry that she had taken with her if she hadn’t already sold it. 

Sherlock quickly dressed and pulled her hair up and away from her face. From her small jewelry collection, she pulled out a silver bangle and a diamond necklace. The small jewel hung on a long chain and nestled nicely between her breasts. Hopefully it would add enough sex appeal to her outfit to make her brother uncomfortable. 

London quickly darkened and the streetlamps lit up the way. A black car had parked itself outside her flat and Sherlock got in. Without a word to the driver, she was taken away.   
Honestly, she was /fine/. She didn’t need her brother to keep checking up on her just because she was extra rude to a few of her professors. They deserved it for being idiots after all. Still, she was going to get a lecture again about stealing top secret government files and not going to therapy and shit like that. It didn’t matter that he was benefiting from her free consultation. 

As they entered the center of London, Sherlock noticed a banner advertising a new art collection being released for the first time to the public. There was a gala being held in honor of it tonight. Would Moriarty dare to go to such a public event? Then again, people hardly knew he existed.

What could it possibly hurt to check it out?

 

What fools these mortals be, thought Jim as he walked through the crowd. That Argentinian painter he found truly was a gem to create such masterful works of art. They were all, of course, completely fake though. And yet these people hardly cared and patted themselves on their back for being so cultured. In the end, they were too stupid to realize that the true work of art they were celebrating was a beautifully designed crime. Jim was here to bask in his glory, the only one in the room who knew the truth. 

He inspected each painting; a few of the originals were now in his own private collection. It took a trained eye to tell them apart. Then again, three highly regarded art critics had deemed them genuine and Jim hadn’t even had to pay them off to do so. It wouldn’t have been as much fun if he had to. 

Then he noticed a young woman in the corner, inspecting one of the paintings as well. She leaned in closely, her nose almost touching the canvas, her expression deep in thought. Oh, he could practically see the gears turning in her head. Did she see what others could not? Jim had to know who she was. 

Mycroft waited somewhat patiently for his sister to arrive at the restaurant. She was already fifteen minutes late. With a heavy sigh, he pulled out his phone and called his driver to make sure they were on her way. The news he got was not good. Apparently his driver had dropped her off and saw her enter the restaurant twenty minutes ago. 

He called over the manager and asked if he had seen a young woman enter fitting Sherlock’s description. The man said yes and added that she went straight through the kitchens to the back door. Before they could stop her, she had disappeared down the dark alleyway. 

That child was in so much trouble. 

 

It wasn’t too hard to crash the gala as Sherlock was already impeccably dressed. She knew nothing about this early twentieth century painter. Apparently these works were from before The Great War and were priceless pieces of German culture. However neither that nor his name meant much to her so she tossed that information aside. She didn’t know it and she didn’t care.

However she did know a thing or two about the chemical compounds in paint itself. That was what caught her eye. It distracted her from her true purpose for just a moment as she closely examined the colors used in the urban landscaping.

“Beautiful, is it not?” a voice drawled from behind, “Though I much prefer his work from after The Great War where he depicted scenes of men caught in plumes of mustard gas. He was able to paint the agony quite beautifully. Too bad he died before the Second World War. I would have loved to have seen what he’d paint of the Jews in captivity.” 

Sherlock straightened up and turned to face the exact same man she had come in search for. The blurry photograph did this man no justice for he was looked exactly what you /wouldn’t/ expect a criminal mastermind to look like. He had a very unassuming face, neither handsome nor ugly, and there was a light Irish accent to his fluctuating voice. In one sentence it could be both annoying high and then suddenly seductively low like he couldn’t decide which voice to use against her. 

“It certainly is beautiful though I’m not quite certain it’s genuine.” Sherlock’s heart was racing while her exterior remained calm. She just called a priceless painting a fake in front of the man who most likely put it there. 

Jim raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?” he said smoothly, “But so many critics have deemed them to be genuine. What makes you think you know better than the masters?” He honestly was curious. There was something almost familiar about this girl. It would be a pity if he had to kill her. 

“The paint,” Sherlock replied, “It’s a difficult process to make paint look like it aged naturally over several decades but not impossible. However, the plants used to create theses colors seem to originate in South America. You can tell by a few of the hues present in the paint. A poor German painter in the early twentieth century would have made his paints with local florae.” 

So clever…Jim couldn’t help but smile. “That certainly is an interesting theory. Are you going to ruin the evening by telling everyone? It would cause quite the scandal if it were proved true”

Sherlock shrugged. “Why bother? Either they were too stupid to notice it themselves or they were paid off.”

He laughed and then extended his hand. “I’m Christian Farthing. Forgive me for not introducing myself sooner.”

Well if he was going to give her an alias, she would do the same. “I’m Violet. It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Farthing.” When she gave him her hand, he pulled it up to his lips. 

“Would you like a drink?” he asked as they both studied each other, trying to look past the facades. 

“Yes please. Scotch if they have it.”

When Jim left her to fetch their drinks, Sherlock realized exactly how much trouble she was in.


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft sent a city wide search for his sister. For her to have come all this way and then give him the slip was strange. Either this was a new way of annoying him or she had learned something about Moriarty and was foolish enough to act upon it alone. He wasn’t going to take a chance that it wasn’t temporary insanity. 

“Anthea, remind me of what you had seen in Sherlock’s flat when you visited her this morning. Did anything strike you as odd?” 

“Besides her entire taste in décor?” Anthea frowned, “She had newspaper articles printed up of different crimes. I think she was trying to connect them from Moriarty. There was a wide variety of them though, art forgery, sex trafficking, drugs smuggling, and assassinations.”

“Drug smuggling?”

“I doubt she’s that stupid and desperate.”

Mycroft sighed. “True but she is reckless enough to put herself in danger to prove a point.”

 

This girl truly was something special. She was quite good at hiding how wary she was of his presence. They were both playing parts here and both knew the other was an actor. All the same, they remained professional and didn’t call each other out. Yet. She needed to work on her side of course but she was young and malleable. It would really be such a shame if she turned out to be an enemy or competition because then he’d have to kill such a beautiful creature. 

It was best to find out who she was now and get it over with. He might become attached if he didn’t.

“Miss Violet,” Jim said with a smile playing upon his lips, “As much as I’d hate to say this, but I have a meeting early in the morning and must leave.”

“How very unfortunate for you,” Sherlock replied, secretly relieved. She had lasted longer than she had thought. When Mycroft finally found her, she’d be able to give him even more information. Like which hotel this man was staying at judging by the smell of the soap beneath his cologne. 

“Oh, I wasn’t finished,” he said, “I was hoping that you would come join me at my hotel so we could talk further. You’re very interesting.” The expression in his eyes told Sherlock that this was not a request. Shit. 

Sherlock smiled. “That sounds delightful. Let me get my coat.” Perhaps she’d have a chance to slip away.

“I’ll come with you, then.”

Nope.

 

“Sir,” Anthea said, looking up from her phone, “there’s a charity gala at an art gallery. Sherlock was researching art forgery.” 

Was his sister trying to link the gallery to another of Moriarty’s crimes? Certainly she could have gone to the gallery after the gala unless…

“Take us there now.” 

When they arrived, Sherlock was already gone. She had left with an older man with dark hair. His arm was wrapped around her waist. 

His sister was trapped with a madman.

 

Sherlock arrived at the third hotel she had thought Moriarty would reside at. If she lived to see the morning, she’d have to work on her skills. She would have to think of something quick to make that happen.

“You look tense, dear,” Jim said, taking off his jacket, “Is something on your mind?”

“I believe you’ve mistaken the kind of girl I am,” she said, taking a seat on a sofa in the middle of Jim’s suite. 

He raised an eyebrow, “Have I?”

Sherlock nodded. “You think I’m a spy.”

Again, Jim laughed. “If I thought you were a spy, why would I take you to my hotel suite? Surely I want something else from you.”

“You mix business and pleasure,” she said, smirking, “Very like James Bond.”

Jim took a seat by her, leaning in on her personal space. His hand cupped her chin, forcing her to maintain eye contact. “I don’t think I’m much like James Bond. I’m more like one of his villains—except better.”

“You’re thinking about killing me.” Sherlock’s voice was steady. She didn’t fear death.

“Yes,” he said quietly, “and you’re thinking about ways of stopping me from doing that.”

“It would be very inconvenient, especially since I came here looking for a job.” 

That got the man’s attention. He pulled away slightly, examining her entire being. “Is that so? That’s not exactly a dress one wears to an interview.”

Sherlock nodded. “I was on my way to meet with someone else. I took a gamble and went to the gala instead. I wasn’t sure if you would be there or not.” 

Now this was interesting. “And what sort of skills do you have that I might wish to have at my disposal?”

“I found you, didn’t I? James Moriarty…”

Jim grinned and stood up to bow. “Very well done, Miss Violet” he said, “How about you tell me your /real/ name now?”

“Are you saying that I have the job then?”

“I’m saying that I won’t kill you just yet.” His phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out, reading a text from one of his men. Mycroft Holmes had pulled up at the gala twenty minutes after they had left. Jim looked down at Sherlock. This was not a coincidence. 

“Go get some rest. You can have my bed,” he said, “I have some business to take care of. We’ll be leaving in the morning.” 

That might give her some time then to think over what the hell she just said. Sherlock wanting a /job/ from a criminal mastermind? Thank god it worked or else she would probably be bleeding out on the floor right now. 

With a silent nod, she stood up and headed towards the bedroom.

“Oh, and Violet,” he called out, “I’m going to need your phone. I don’t want anyone tracking it. When we’re out of the country I’ll buy you another one.” 

Sherlock pulled out her phone and removed the SIM card from it. Dropping it to the ground, she dug her heel down on it thus destroying any data it may have had. Then she tossed him the phone and disappeared into the bedroom.

Jim caught it and smirked. Clever, clever girl. So this was The Iceman’s little sister. Sherlock Holmes all grown up.

This was going to be a lot of fun indeed.


	6. Chapter 6

Though Sherlock had done what Jim had said and gone into his bedroom to rest, it was anything but restful. She did a visual sweep of the room to see if there was anything that could give her more information on the man but it was immaculate. He hadn’t even touched the chocolates on the pillows yet.

She curled up on the bed, closing her eyes. In all outward appearances, it looked as if she was asleep but her mind was at work. How long would it be before Jim Moriarty knew who she really was? It wasn’t like she went to many social events with her family. Either she would have to prove that she wasn’t loyal to her family by giving up some sort of secret or hope that Jim wasn’t vindictive enough to come after her if she managed to escape.

Maybe her family’s involvement with the French Embassy scandal would be enough…

It was about five in the morning when Sherlock heard the door open and Jim enter the bedroom. She felt the bed shift as he sat on the edge. Then there was total silence. It lasted for about ten minutes when she heard him speak.

“I know you’re awake.”

“I know that as well.”

Jim bent down to whisper into her ear, “Do you know what I’m thinking?” 

Sherlock didn’t open her eyes. “I have several theories.”

She didn’t have to look up at him to know that he was smirking. “Get up,” he said, “We have a plane to catch.”

Three hours later and Sherlock was on a private jet with a psychotic criminal and no idea where they were going. 

Jim paid hardly any attention to her as he worked off of his laptop across from her. Breakfast had been served to the two of them by the flight attendants but neither of them ate. Sherlock had no need to be worried of hers being poisoned, she simply had no appetite at the moment. 

About two hours into the flight and Jim finally spoke. “It’s time to test your abilities, my dear.” He snapped his fingers and an attendant brought out a laptop for Sherlock. It was already on with several documents opened up upon the screen. “I have a group of men waiting to enter into the building shown on the screen. You’re going to find the best way for them to get in, get to the eighth floor office, and get out without being caught. If you succeed, I’ll give you a reward. Fail and I’ll have you thrown out of the plane.” 

Sherlock knew he wasn’t kidding. She started scanning the documents. They contained security schedules, blueprints, and where each camera was located. Once she had formulated one plan, she took the time to establish a backup plan as well. She couldn’t take any chances.

“What’s taking you so long?” Jim asked in a drawling voice. It was over an hour and the girl hadn’t even looked up from her screen.

“The threat of being thrown out of an aeroplane gives one much motivation to make sure everything is perfect.” 

Jim laughed, though the amusement didn’t quite show itself in his features. “Show me what you’ve got.” He tossed her a phone. His trusted sniper, Sebastian Moran, was already waiting for instructions on the other line. 

Sherlock caught it and went straight to work. “Go to the east entrance and park on the alleyway on the left. Take only one man with you. Send your technical man to the power station to cut off the live feed and replace it with a time loop.”

The operation took less than fifteen minutes and it was a complete success. Sherlock let out the breath she had been holding and looked up at Jim. “Happy?”

“Very.” Jim presented her with a small black box; inside was a cellphone similar to his own. The model wasn’t even on the public market yet. “It is already programmed with my number. Just know that I change it often so don’t think of sending it to your big brother,” he grinned as she looked up at him, “I look forward to working with you, Sherlock Holmes.”

She nodded her head, showing as little reaction as possible. “As do I, Jim.” 

 

“I don’t care for your excuses you useless lout! I want you to find out where he has taken her and now!” 

This was one of the rare times that Anthea had ever seen her boss so emotional. And of course, it had to do with Sherlock. 

Mycroft hung up on his minion and took a deep breath. He needed to regain his composure. He needed to focus. Getting overly emotional would only hasten his sister’s demise. “Anthea, what reports do you have?” 

“I had every CCTV camera near high end hotels checked for signs of young women fitting Sherlock’s description.” She opened up a file and pulled out a black and white photograph of a tall woman being led inside by a dark haired man in a suit. Another photo showed the same couple, this time Sherlock’s face clearly visible. “We’re looking into the other man as we speak. Witnesses from the charity gala claim that the man she had left with was Christian Farthing—the owner of the art collection being displayed.”

“That is most certainly an alias,” Mycroft said with a sigh. He prayed that this man was only one of Moriarty’s pawns and not the man himself. “Has she left the hotel yet?”

Anthea paused. “I’m truly sorry sir,” she said, “but when it was reported that Farthing had checked out of his room, we discovered that it had been done electronically. He had left with Sherlock before dawn, leaving out through the underground garage. I’m having the room searched.” 

Mycroft covered his face with both hands, resting his elbows upon his desk. “Thank you, Anthea. Please contact me as soon as you have more information.” She nodded, leaving him with the files on his desk. 

It wasn’t ten minutes later when Mycroft received a text on his personal phone.

Seems like I have something of yours, Mr. Holmes. Don’t worry though; I intend to take good care of your baby sister. JMxx

 

Jim’s private jet landed in Berlin. “I’m in the mood for some lunch. What about you, Sherlock?” he said, sending off a text to her brother. 

He already had many plans for the young woman. Many games for them to play…


	7. Chapter 7

Jim had a lot of business to take care of in Germany. There were drug smugglers to attend to and rivals to assassinate. There were people who wanted to disappear while others wanted their enemies to disappear just a bit more permanently than the former. Jim was even debating on whether to support a new group of sex traffickers who were looking to expand their client base to a higher business class. Those rings were always useful to have a finger in. Whores were a great and cheap way of getting good information. 

However, not all of these ventures were fit to have his nemesis’s little sister within ear shot, no matter how promising she was. Jim would simply have to have someone watch her while he was gone (possibly give her something to do as well so that precious mind wouldn’t rot). 

After a rather expensive lunch on the rooftop of a fine restaurant, both Jim and Sherlock were driven out to another hotel. Jim went into the bathroom to shower and change into a fresh suit. He had another set of emails sent to Sherlock’s laptop and placed a black credit card on top of it. 

“I expect all of the work I’ve sent you to be completed by the time I get back,” Jim said as he put on his coat, “When you’re done, go out and buy yourself some clothes and a travel bag.” 

“What’s my allowance?” Sherlock asked, raising a brow. 

“Well since you’ve been a good girl let’s say fifty thousand pounds for now. I want you to get something nice to wear for tomorrow night. We’re going to see a show.” Jim had already bought the tickets while on the plane.

He left her in the hotel room with three men ordered to follow her around the city. It was doubtful she would try to and contact her brother so early in the game. Sherlock knew that he didn’t trust her. Still, she was young and might disappoint him by doing just that.

The work Jim had left her was simple, basic operations such as helping clients hide their accounts, dead body clean up, and blackmail. Compared to what he was doing now, it was quite boring but still a good venture to keep up on. It would at least keep Sherlock busy. 

Sherlock wasn’t going to disappoint. She did her work quickly and efficiently. The whole work load only lasted her several hours. It gave her plenty enough time to go shopping and explore the city. After all, she had never been to Berlin before. 

 

“John! Get your arse over to surgery! Jefferson’s been hit!” The voice came outside his tent. Murphy’s squad was back. 

John quickly pulled his boots on and ran off towards the medic’s tent. It wasn’t even morning yet, the stars still out over their camp. The rest of the squad was removing their gear, each man barely distinguishable from the others in the darkness. He passed them by and went inside to tend to Jefferson. 

The man was lucky. Shrapnel from an IED had cut through his leg but missed the femoral artery. He would have bled to death otherwise. John spent the next two hours painstakingly taking out every shred of metal out of Jefferson’s leg. Then he gave him as much pain medicine as he could and cleaned up. 

It wasn’t even breakfast yet but John knew it was going to be a long day. 

At 16:00, John was called into the satellite room. Another patrol had come in during the afternoon, many men a lot worse off than Jefferson had been. John was exhausted and covered in dirt and blood when he came in to report.

“You have a call, Watson,” the superior officer said, letting him enter the room alone. The satellite video phone was only used for important business.   
Then he saw Mycroft’s face on the screen. John instantly became more alert.

“What’s happened to Sherlock?” he said immediately. That’s the only reason why Mycroft would bother calling him. He prayed it wasn’t another overdose…

“It’s a long story,” the man on the other end said, “But first, you’re coming home. Your plane will be arriving at 03:00. I expect you to be packed and ready by then.”

“You can’t do that, Mycroft. My men need me.” But if Sherlock needed him as well, could he really abandon them? “What’s going on?”

“I already have signed the paperwork. They’ll have another medic by the end of the week.” Mycroft paused for a moment. “Please. I need your assistance in this situation. You’re one of the few people that I can trust in the matter at hand.” 

The man wasn’t going to give him any information until John was safely back in England. It had to be something worse than an overdose. “I understand. But you better be ready to tell me everything when I get there.” 

John left the room and headed back to his tent. He had to pack and say goodbye to his army mates. 

 

Sherlock knew that she had been watched the entire time she was out in Berlin. She went to the main shopping area and bought herself a new wardrobe. Most of the clothes were androgynous and professional in nature, along with some casualwear for if she’d be allowed some time to herself. With a fifty thousand pound allowance, she made sure to get the best brands. 

Everything was sent to the hotel leaving Sherlock some time to stop at a café for a drink. It wasn’t hard to pick out who was watching her in the crowd and saved the information for later use. Her final stop was a simple bookstore. She bought a few texts on organic chemistry and mathematics to keep her mind sharp. By the time she returned to the hotel room, Jim was already back from his duties.

“I trust you behaved,” he said, “Your clothes were delivered an hour ago. I’m surprised how you only spent eight thousand pounds.”

“As vain as I am, I’m also practical. What I have now will suit me for the time.” Sherlock went over to her bed to start sorting out her clothes and taking the tags off of them. She pulled out the dress and hung it in the wardrobe.

After looking over Sherlock’s work (adding a few critiques), Jim left her until the next evening. He intended to reward her by taking her to see the Berlin symphony play the work of Schubert. 

The next evening, Sherlock bathed and dressed herself in a midnight blue gown. The silken material was held up with a silver chain clasped around her neck and hanging down her bared back. She waited out on the balcony, reading a book. 

When Jim came back, he was already ready. “You look lovely,” he said, leaning against the doorway. He extended his hand and Sherlock rose to take it.

The theater was packed though Moriarty had his own private box with his companion. Sherlock was not as familiar with Schubert though it seemed that it was Jim’s favorite composer.

“I love fairy tales,” Jim murmured to her as Der Erlkonig played on, “The real ones. It’s a shame parents try to censor the absolute horror in the original tales.”

Though her German was rusty, Sherlock was able to understand the lyrics. A young boy and his father go riding through the woods one evening. The elf king sees the boy and, entranced by his beauty, tries to convince him to come away with him and live with the fairies. When the boy refuses, he tries to take him by force. 

Sherlock looked down at the program in her hand, reading the rest of the selection for the evening. It was Death and the Maiden, entirely done by strings. 

The next day, she bought a violin.


	8. Chapter 8

Honestly, Jim was rather impressed at Sherlock’s reaction to the concert. The meaning was obvious so he had no fear that she wouldn’t get it. There was only one bed in the hotel room after all. He had been playing this little game since they first met. Of course, he had no intention of taking her. There were whores for that and Sherlock had much more value to her. He just wanted to see how she would react. Would she give in to his foreshadowed whims or would she fight back? For all she knew, he could very well kill her if she refused him.

What he didn’t expect was to be stopped at the door of the hotel room. 

“Thank you for a lovely evening, Jim,” she said, blocking his entry to the room, “As well as seeing me to my room.”

He raised a brow. “Your room?”

“Yes. Mine. The fact that you had arrived here earlier this evening fully dressed for the night proves that you have a second hotel room—or maybe a private flat. Obviously you wouldn’t trust me to know the location of any safe houses you have. At least not until I prove my loyalty.” 

Jim laughed. “Very clever, Sherlock, very clever indeed.”

“You act as if that surprises you.” Sherlock narrowed her eyes, her tone serious now, “Stop playing this game with me. It’s quite overdone by now.” 

He leaned in close. “What if this is just my way of seducing you?” he whispered into her ear.

“Then I’m not impressed.” 

The next thing Jim saw was the door being shut in his face. He had to jump back to avoid it hitting him. She actually shut the door in his face! Jim was actually far too amused to be angry at her. She definitely was a brave girl.

He headed back to his flat in the heart of Berlin (Sherlock had been correct), whistling to Der Erlkonig in the back of his limousine. 

When he found her playing the music on her new Stradivarius, it amused him even more.

 

After Berlin, Sherlock rarely had a chance to be alone. Jim was around almost constantly, using her as his own personal secretary. She would accompany him to meetings and engagements; take notes and make calls. Then when they returned to the hotels and safe houses, she would be given a group of projects for her to do on her own. He intended to keep her busy for the time being, to test her abilities.

With Sherlock around, Jim made sure to schedule all of his unimportant meetings to go to. He tried to keep the most delicate operations under wraps. Having the young woman know about CEOs faking their deaths or drug lords having their competition wiped out didn’t matter to him. Besides, Sherlock had quite good insight into some of these matters. She knew what to look for in a crime so she knew how to avoid making mistakes. 

Though Jim made sure that Sherlock would stay in the same hotel or safe house, he always made sure she had a separate room or bed. Still, he noticed how she would dress in suits that made her look like a boy. It was her armor in criminal world and against anyone who thought to underestimate her because of her sex. How adorable, he thought.  
He enjoyed watching her work in the evenings. It was like he could see her mind itself putting the pieces of the puzzle together. Then watch it unravel as Sherlock played the violin and lost herself to the music. She played Schubert at first to tease him and then went on to Tchaikovsky and Bach and even more contemporary pieces. 

One night, Jim was surprised to hear her playing the classic James Bond theme song. She had been quiet most of that day and suddenly played this tune. He didn’t take her for one to enjoy spy movies since they were always overdramatic and inaccurate. Sentiment most likely—oh well, no one was perfect. 

Sherlock’s presence was amusing enough to keep Jim from delving into the darker aspects of his personality. 

That is until someone tried to fucking kill him.

One afternoon while Jim and Sherlock were walking in St. Petersburg having a rather delightful discussion on the case of Countess Bathory, some idiot had to jump out of an alley and attack them with a knife. A knife!

It was an obviously pathetic attempt at covering up the assassination as a simple mugging. The clothes were dirtied and torn but his shoes were in excellent condition. Mikhail Voldoveksy must have sent the assassin after Jim had refused to clean up the mess that he had made of the Serbian weapons smuggling operations. 

Jim watched the man’s movements carefully as he came forward. Moran was just around the corner and would—apparently he wasn’t moving fast enough because the assassin struck out at him. He raised his arm to block the attack and felt himself being pushed away by another force. Sherlock cried out as the knife lodged itself in her forearm. She hit him with a left hook before both of them fell down. 

Without his weapon, the would-be-assassin was useless. He took off running back down the alleyway. It wouldn’t be long until he was hunted down. 

“What the fuck were you doing?” Jim hissed, going to kneel by Sherlock’s side. Blood had already soaked through her coat. 

She was wondering the same thing. Did she really just push him away? Things had happened so quickly and she hadn’t had time to think. 

“You’re right,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth, “I shouldn’t have tried to save the life of an idiot who let his bodyguard fall behind to chat up prostitutes!” She could hear said bodyguard running up to them now. 

Jim glared at her and pulled out the knife, taking pleasure in hearing her cry out in pain. Oh, but that was certainly not enough. He didn’t want /her/ to suffer. People were going to pay for this. 

“Sebastian,” he said, looking up at the man, “Get a team to go after Mikhail. I want that man tied to a chair and waiting for me by nightfall!” 

Jim called in a private doctor while he took Sherlock back to the safe house. The wound wasn’t nearly as deep as was first perceived but she would have to have stitches nonetheless. 

Sherlock was quiet the whole time as the doctor tended to her wound, her thoughts masked by her stony demeanor. Jim noticed how she hardly reacted to the needle piercing her skin and that she refused the morphine the doctor offered. So she had had a history of drug abuse...

By the time Sherlock was taken care of, Moran had returned. “We can’t find Mikhail at any of his usual haunts and the attacker has disappeared.”

Before Jim could verbally cut Moran down, Sherlock spoke up. 

“Have your men search the red light district. It’s less than five blocks from where we were attacked. The brothel should have a fox as its symbol.”

Moran frowned, “How the hell do you know that?” 

Sherlock produced a tattered napkin. There was a fox wrapped around a pole and the scent of vodka wafting from the paper. “I picked his pocket. The attacker was drinking before he went after us. You could tell how he was stumbling as he tried to get back up. Mikhail was taking a gamble by trying to hire a random thug rather than a professional assassin—most likely to avoid being caught out. That means Mikhail did his business at that brothel, knowing it wasn’t his usual place. He’s probably there hiding and entertaining himself.” 

It made sense. Jim was pissed that he hadn’t thought of it himself. Even Moran was impressed. The sniper didn’t like this girl (she was a Holmes, thus a liability) but now he could see why Jim was keeping her around. 

“Well?” Jim snapped, “Get out there and find him!” 

Moran left once more and Sherlock was alone with Jim. 

Sherlock took a deep breath, the pain in her arm pulling away her focus from the rest of the world. Then she felt a hand on her wrist and looked up. Jim was studying her bandages and looked back up at her expression. He squeezed it gently and she gasped. That reaction got a smirk out of him. 

“Not quite good as good as the drugs though, is it?” he said as he stood back up.

“What are you—“ 

Jim hushed her and left the room. He returned with another suit jacket and tossed it to her. “Put this on. We’re leaving. I want to be ready for when they bring in Mikhail.” 

They drove off towards an industrial area filled with warehouses. Jim had a special building for any business that required a cleanup afterwards. Sherlock followed him inside. A chair was place in the center, beneath a light. A bit clichéd but the intention was clear. Jim went inside a small office space and returned with a tray of tools. 

He saw her looking over his toys and grinned. “Too bad you hurt your arm. You’ll have to sit this one out.” There was a crash and Moran began dragging a middle aged Russian with a broken nose into the light. Sherlock saw a manic gleam in Jim’s eyes and mentally prepared herself for what was to come next.


End file.
